“Only a scratch, Mary; ye ought t’ see th’ other felly.”
“Who was he, Jack?”
“His name’s Nevins—but ye don’t know him.”
“Tell me about it,” she commanded, her eyes blazing. “All about it!”
“Well, it’s a long story, darlint,” said Jack, teasingly, “an’ I don’t feel quite ekal to it on an empty stomach. I guess I’d better go over t’ th’ daypo restaurant an’ git a snack. I ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat since noon o’ yistidday.”
“O’ course I kept your supper hot fer ye, Jack,” she assured him, softening instantly. “You go git washed an’ git into some clean clothes, so you’ll look a little less like a hobo, an’ I’ll have it on th’ table in a jiffy.”
Mary Welsh was one of those admirable housekeepers whom no emergency finds unprepared. Jack’s supper had long ago evaporated and dried up in the process of keeping it warm; even the tenderest steak, kept in an oven for seven hours, will acquire a leathery texture and a flavour of old shoes. But a fresh piece of steak was frying in a moment, and some sliced potatoes sputtering in the pan beside it; the coffee-pot was set on again, and the pantry rummaged for such supplies as it could furnish. It was some little time before Jack reappeared, for he had to change his clothes from the skin out, as well as get the mud off the skin itself. When, at last, he did come down the stairs, the meal, fresh, appetizing, and smoking hot, was awaiting him on the table.
“Mary, you’re a jewel,” he said, as he drew up his chair, and fell to.
“Yes,” she observed, dryly, “I’ve allers heerd that th’ way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Well, I’d rather have me heart in me belly than in me pocketbook,” retorted Jack. “Lucky I had on me old clothes,” he added; “they’ll niver be fit t’ wear agin.”